


Honey, I'm home

by gonattsaga



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, First Kiss, First Time, Fragmented Narrative, Inner Dialogue, M/M, Possibly OOC, Protective Mycroft, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Virgin Moriarty, Virgin Sherlock, emotional issues, inner monologue, lots of italics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 19:14:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3422474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonattsaga/pseuds/gonattsaga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not actually Jim Moriarty who is behind this, he knows. It can’t be. He’s dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hope

**Author's Note:**

> My first Sheriarty fic, and my first fic in this fandom too. It's a bit weird... the narrative is even more scattered than usual, and you might need to have a dissociative identity disorder to actually understand half of it... but yeah. That's my inner Sherlock.

Moriarty, back. Excitement, endorphins, pushing at his skin, prodding his pulse, making his extremities tingle. Sherlock clutches the ipad hard and stares at the picture of his nemesis, stares at the crudely animated mouth, taunting him, mocking him, and he feels a bitter tang of _hope_ rise like bile.

He’s aware of John and Mary hovering in his peripheral, distracting him, _John’s hands steady but the rest of him fidgeting, gearing up, and there’s excitement there too, obviously, could be dangerous indeed_

Sherlock takes a deep breath, _dangerdangerhopehope, Mary a solid rock next to John, one hand on her big belly, the other hanging deceptively relaxed along her side,_ Sherlock bites down on the inside of his cheek, _focus_ , and feels the taste of iron swell in his mouth and mingle with the bitterness that’s already there, _focus_

 _Obviously, it’s not actually Jim_ , Sherlock blinks, _Moriarty_ , he corrects himself, shakes his head; the man keeps wagging his chin like a Punch and Judy puppet, Sherlock turns off the screen and stares at his own dark reflection instead.

It’s not actually Jim Moriarty who is behind this, he knows. It can’t be. _He’s dead._ Sherlock had been there, had seen it happen, seen him do it, _he actually did it_ , and if it had been any other with Moriarty on that rooftop, the criminal mastermind could well have faked his suicide and got away with it, _it’s not difficult_ , but not with Sherlock. Not even James Moriarty could have fooled Sherlock Holmes, _he is dead_ , Sherlock saw him die, _blood and brain matter mingling together, seeping into concrete, a sad — no, twisted, mocking, giddy, insane — smile still lurking at the corners of_ that mouth _and dark dark eyes empty, emptier_ , Sherlock clamps his hands down on his head, as if the added pressure would still his thoughts, _focus focus focus_

“Sherlock?”

_Not now, John. Obviously it can’t have been Jim who sent the message, but who did?_

“John…” Mary murmurs and hushes.

_Thank you, Mary. Unless it was set on a timer. But to what end? To have the last word, laugh, could it be that simple?_

“I can’t really be him, can it?” John says.

Sherlock and Mary both sigh, in unison, unintentionally, and Sherlock suppresses a groan. _Why are they still here, why won’t they leave me alone to think, why won’t they leave_

“John, maybe we should leave Sherlock alone for a while, hm? Let him think?”

_God, this woman… how ever did we manage without her?_

“I suppose it could be one of his men, his henchmen…” John continues, stubbornly ignoring his wife.

_Someone from his network, Sherlock thinks. Someone I’ve overlooked_

“Someone who wants revenge maybe?”

_Impossible_

Suddenly there are sirens on the street below and then footsteps on the stairs, _clunky, clumsy_ , and slightly laboured breathing, _getting too old for fieldwork, Lestrade?_

“Sherlock—!“

“Yes, yes!” Sherlock snaps. “ _He’s back, but he can’t be, he’s dead, but he’s back_ , I know! Now will you people _please_ leave me alone to think!?”

“Well, there’s no need to be a twat about it…” Lestrade says, but there’s an underlying amusement in his tone and a smirk on his face confirms it, Sherlock grunts and looks away again. “Besides, that’s not why I’m here…”

“What?”

Sherlock looks up completely, some hairs coming off in his hands when he lets go of his head, but he barely notices the sting in his scalp as the detective inspector is waving a white letter in a very enticing manner, still smirking. The ipad lands on the carpet with a _thump_ as Sherlock jumps to his feet and hurls himself across the room, nearly knocking the other man over as he grabs the letter from him.

“Steady on—!“

Sherlock hushes him sharply. It’s a plain white envelope, _expensive stationary, thick, soft, recycled_ , he turns it over gently, examining every square centimetre, every edge, the swirly handwriting in blue ink that spells out

“Sherlock—“ John starts.

Sherlock immediately swirls around and pushes past him. He stomps inside his bedroom, slamming the door to really make his point. He then curls up on the bed, shoes and all, coat settling like a cocoon around him. He puts the letter close to his face and inhales, _paper, hint of ink, something else_ , and then looks at the front again – “s h e r l o c k” – ink seeping into the paper, letters seeping into each other.

He carefully works his finger inside the small opening at the edge of the flap and slowly tears it open. A single sheet of paper, _same stationary as the envelope, folded once, carefully_ , and stares at the writing on the middle of the page, a short sentence, _same handwriting, same ink_ , cutting straight across the crease, _“It’s really me, promise x”_

Hs heart does that fluttery thing that it does sometimes, but he refuses to acknowledge it, stomps the _excitementhappinesshopehopehope_ firmly down, _it’s impossible_

Suddenly, his mobile starts to buzz, insistent, long buzzes, _an incoming call_ , he puts the letter down on the bed and starts fumbling through his coat pockets until he finds the phone, _unknown number_ , his stomach flips over, heart beats painfully hard, he presses the _Answer_ button and holds his breath as he lifts the mobile up to his ear.

A giggle echoes down the line and Sherlock is sure the floor must have plummeted underneath him because he is _falling_ , and it’s exhilarating but it’s terrifying, the blood in his veins seems to be replaced with air, maybe the air missing from his lungs.

“So…” the Irish lilt murmurs _darkly, playfully, seductively, aaargh I don’t know, I can’t bloody well tell_. “Did you miss me, darling?”

“Oh, you have no idea”, Sherlock replies and is actually shocked at how steady his voice is.

Another giggle. Somehow more genuine, relaxed.

“I’m delighted to hear it…”

“So what now?” Sherlock asks, heart pounding. “Round two?”

“Now that would be boringly predictable of me, wouldn’t it?” Moriarty drawls on the other end.

Sherlock registers a sinking feeling, _ignore it_ , he tells himself. _No more games, that’s good, that’s a good thing, no more puzzles means no more deaths, explosions, threats, taunts, puzzles, no more puzzles… stop it, it’s a good thing_

“I’ve disappointed you”, Moriarty’s voice cuts through the whirl of thoughts.

“Not at all”, Sherlock lies smoothly.

“We could”, Moriarty amends, and there’s a soothing quality to his voice now. “We could play some more… if you want… it’s not like I have a shortage of clients…”

A voice in the back of Sherlock’s mind elbows its way to the front and reminds him that Moriarty’s network is supposed to be dismantled, that he’s spent the last two years making sure of that, _two years of running, hiding, infiltrating, suffering, starving, patiently picking apart terror cells and crime syndicates_ and apparently for nothing.

“Oh, no”, Moriarty breathes out, cutting himself off as well as Sherlock’s thoughts. “Now I’ve gone and made you _really_ upset… this isn’t at all going to plan, I wasn’t to bring up…” he huffs a little. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. Look… don’t feel bad, okay? You did a really good job of ruining my business. It will take me years to rebuild it—“

“Really, Jim? _Years_?” Sherlock snaps before he can stop himself.

There’s a tiny pause on the other end, “Okay, maybe not years… but one year, almost definitely… alright?”

Sherlock presses his lips together, _don’t respond, don’t give him the satisfaction, this is what he wants, to gloat, tease, humiliate you,_ but the sigh on the other end is decidedly frustrated, _no, he’s a brilliant actor, remember?_

“Sherlock?” another sigh, a smaller one, _almost… wet, somehow_. “Sherlock, this isn’t what I… I didn’t call to…”

“Why _did_ you call?”

“Well, I… do you really want to keep playing?”

_What is that supposed to mean?_

“Sherlock? Do you want me to send you another puzzle?”

 _A poisoned apple like the fairytale, a dismembered librarian in a locked room, locked from the inside,_ his imagination is running wild with the possibilities, the _gruesome, ugly, horrible paindeathterror_ and _the chasechasechase, no_

“Because I will”, Moriarty continues. “If that’s what you want, my dear…”

_No_

“Why would I _want_ you to do that?” he scoffs and hopes that Moriarty won’t call him out on the blatant lie.

“Sherlock…” Moriarty chides him, _no such luck apparently_. “I know you’ve been bored since you got back, and I had meant to call on you sooner but… well, you know how it is, things popping up at the last minute… of course, when I heard about the wedding I arranged for a little distraction, I do hope you enjoyed it, but that was really just a fluke, I didn’t intend for us to just… pick up where we left off.”

“The colonel. That was you.”

“Honey, do keep up.”

“What _had_ you intended for us then, James?”

There’s a tiny pause, and Sherlock can hear a slight hitch in the other man’s voice, _interesting_

“I had… _hoped_ ” Moriarty says, a little breathlessly. “That we might try to cut out the middleman this time around…”

Sherlock quickly ends the call and tosses the mobile away from him and it lands at the end of the bed, _out of reach, good_ , his heart is hammering away wildly in his chest, _ridiculous._ Sherlock nearly jumps when the mobile buzzes again, _short buzz, text message_ and the screen lights up. He scrambles over to it and peers at the screen without touching the phone, as if being in contact with it again will destroy the last of his resolve.

_“Whatever you want, my dear_

_I mean that._

_think about it and get back to me_

_x JM”_

 

Sherlock releases a breath he wasn’t even aware of holding. _Whatever I want_ , he thinks numbly. _My dear My dear My dear_ , and yes, he had no doubt that Moriarty _did_ _mean that_ , but the question was what he meant by _that_ and what it meant that he meant it, _cut out the middleman_ , Sherlock let a strangled groan escape and fisted his hair again, _My dear, stop it, think about it and get back to me, x JM, x x x_

He grabs the mobile with a growl and quickly, _before I regain my sanity_ , he taps out a reply: _“And what is it exactly do you want, Jim?”_

_One second, two seconds, three…_

The mobile starts buzzing again, the vibrations tingles through all his layers of skin, all the way into the tiny bones in his hand. He doesn’t answer it. The screen is alight with the anonymous picture of an unknown number, and Sherlock thinks he should put it into his contacts, select a picture for it, he huffs a little to himself, _just imagine, a picture of Jim, obviously not possible, but it would be funny_

The mobile stops ringing. The screen is still alight. _“1 missed call”_

 

And then:

_“I rather not text about this_

_x JM”_

 

Sherlock taps out: _“I prefer to text”_ and hits send, then hesitating for a second he sends another: _“xx”_

 

_“Can we meet? Please   x”_

 

Sherlock smiles at that, it just sort of happens, and he’s not even aware of it until the screen goes dark and he can see his own reflection in it.

 _“I guess that could be arranged”_ , he replies even though he _shouldn’t shouldn’t shouldn’t_ , he’s more than aware, he’s playing with fire, _Mycroft will be so disappointed_ , but it’s too late, Moriarty has him snared once again, maybe he always did.

 _“When”_ , comes the immediate response, and then: _“Where”_

Sherlock feels a swell of pride at having reduced the otherwise eloquent master criminal to one word messages, and he bites himself in the lip, curling his hands into fists, _wait wait wait for it_ , he’s giddy, it’s very inappropriate, but he feels all of five again and _this is like Christmas_

 

_“Sherlock?”_

_“The pool again? How droll. But whatever you want. Tomorrow work for you? I can make it there by eleven. x JM”_

 

Sherlock chuckles a little and the shift from _insecure Jim_ to _all business Moriarty_ , or maybe that’s really the other way around, Sherlock isn’t sure, but he is actually going to have the opportunity to _find out_ , as much as the changeable psychopath will allow anyone to, Sherlock will _pick him apart_

Pulse racing, he scrambles off the bed and walks back out into the living room. The others are still there, all of them, including Lestrade. Sherlock quells the urge to roll his eyes and flops down in his chair with a dramatic twirl.

“John, do put the kettle on”, he says. “Inspector, I don’t know that I can be of much assistance. I know as much as you and the rest of Britain. I will look into the matter, certainly. But it will take some time.”

“So that’s what the letter was about then?” Lestrade says. _Oh_ …

“What”, John says. “It was from him, the letter, he sent you a letter, Sherlock?”

“John”, Sherlock snapped. “Kettle.”

“Sherlock! I’m not your housekee…” he catches himself and takes a deep breath. “Fine. I think we could all use some tea, I’ll put the kettle on…”

“Thank you”, Sherlock says and earns a hard glare.

Mary is hiding a smile behind her hand. Sherlock glances at her and she winks at him. He feels his own lips twitch a little.

“Well?” Lestrade prompts.

“Yes”, Sherlock says. “I assume so. It didn’t say anything, but considering the timing, what else could it be…”

“What, it didn’t say anything? Nothing at all?”

“No”, Sherlock says briskly.


	2. Hi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now he’s standing there in front of Sherlock again, eyeing him, studying him, reading him...

The light reflected off the water hits the walls like an army of ghosts dancing all around them and Sherlock feels the rhythm push at him, lulling his pulse into a slower trot to match it, despite the excitement in the air, _like electricity_ , _thrumming, tickling,_ this place with its built-in echo and smell of chlorine, _so many memories_ , well, only the one memory really, but scattered into a myriad of little moments, _James Moriarty, Hi…_ the beating of Sherlock’s heart, John’s set jaw and his lips pressed into a thin line and barely there at all anymore, _I gave you my number, I thought you might call_ , and Sherlock had felt a shiver, he had actually felt a shiver run through him when he heard that voice, that phoney, feminine lilt but with an edge _so sharp_ it actually stung to hear it.

And then he’d walked out, _looking like, like_ … and for a moment Sherlock had actually thought he’d made a mistake; that man, that smiling little boy of a man with the expensive suit and happy-go-lucky posture as he strolled round the pool, it didn’t add up. Even when he spoke again and Sherlock was actively listening for it, the edge seemed to be gone again… until, of course, _say that again and know that if you’re lying to me, I will find you, and I will skin you_ …

Now he’s standing there in front of Sherlock again, eyeing him, studying him, _reading him_ , and there’s nothing threatening about him now either, _yet_ , just a curious tilt of the head, hands tucked away into pockets and face carefully devoid of expression. Except for his eyes, _those dark eyes_ , Sherlock flashes back to the roof momentarily, _dark dark empty empty dead_ , and he shivers. Something in Moriarty’s face twitches a little, as if he’d seen it too.

“I should have known this would become _our place_ , what with your obsessive-compulsive behaviour”, Moriarty speaks up finally. “That’s how I knew what you were up to by the way, telling me to meet you on the roof instead of here… Sorry”, he mumbles and looks down. “I didn’t mean to bring that up… I’m nervous.”

Sherlock blinks in surprise. Nothing about the other man would suggest he was nervous, except the fact that he is working really hard to keep it that way, and Sherlock _had_ seen through it, and _had_ considered it a small victory, like he was one step ahead, but trust Jim Moriarty to completely throw him off guard like this. What did it mean though, Moriarty being open and honest with him like this? What was his game? _No more games, Sherlock, I was_ hoping _… to cut out the middleman this time…_ the words echo through his mind and _Wait, obsessive-compulsive, what…_ Sherlock’s thoughts screech to a halt and makes a u-turn, touching on scattered childhood memories of Mycroft _straightening things_ and Sherlock unstraightening them again, the knocker on 221B, how he knows Mycroft will be waiting for him inside, _such a predictable creature of habit, OCD, obsessive-compulsive disorder_ , Sherlock has no doubt that his brother suffers from it, even though he’s never been diagnosed, _as far as I’m aware_ , but to suggest that _Sherlock_

“I am not obsessive-compulsive”, Sherlock says, indignantly.

Moriarty smirks a little, _smiles, smirks_ , Sherlock isn’t sure, _not enough data, need to sample both expressions for comparison_ , he thinks.

“I _have_ missed you, Sherlock”, Moriarty murmurs and there’s a hint of _something,_ something emotional, Sherlock can’t get at it, it’s all muddled up in everything else, _sentiments, emotions, why is it that people are so easy to read but so hard to read at the same time, and why is_ he _, he should be different, he should be me_

Moriarty’s smirksmile widens, _ah smile now, good, file that away for future reference_ , and he shuffles a few steps closer, head tilted down, almost coyly, _it’s an act obviously,_ but Sherlock’s body reacts anyway, _flutter flip flop flare flutter, how tedious terrifying, stop it, focus_

“I wouldn’t act with you”, Moriarty says, reading his mind, not for the first time. “Not like this. There’s no point anymore.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve seen me now, so I can’t hide from you anymore.”

“What do you mean, _I’ve seen you_?” Sherlock asks, noticing the dryness of his mouth and tries not to think about _blood and brain matter seeping into concrete_.

Moriarty doesn’t answer, but it’s all there, unsaid and pristine in the space between them. The water lapping at the walls of the pool breaks up the quiet somewhat, but not nearly enough. Sherlock is still itching to fill the silence, almost wishes there were gun shots and explosions to distract him, _them, distract them from this_ , which is so much scarier, he swallows thickly.

“And I’ve seen you”, Moriarty adds.

“ _I’m you_?” Sherlock says and tries to sound mocking, but there’s a tremble to his voice that rather ruins the effect.

“And I don’t _want_ to hide from you, Sherlock”, Moriarty says, as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken at all. “I’m sick of hiding.”

Sherlock gets the sense that there is a lot of information in what Moriarty is saying that is _lost on him_ and it irks him to no end. It isn’t supposed to be like this _. Not with you. It’s supposed to be different with you_.

Moriarty closes the distance between them and reaches a hand up, slowly, giving Sherlock plenty of time to recoil, but Sherlock doesn’t, he’s too far gone already. Then there are gently fingertips tapping out a slow melody across his brow, down his temple and dipping below his cheekbone. Sherlock watches Moriarty watch his fingers dance on Sherlock’s face, _it’s all very full circle_. The fingers continue down his cheek, jaw, chin, and then back up onto his mouth. _He’s mapping me out_ , Sherlock thinks and relaxes his mouth, so that his lips fall apart slightly. He watches Mortiarty’s throat move as he swallows. Then looks up into his eyes, and the contact is immediate, an electric _shock_ and not at all pleasant, Sherlock thinks, except his body seems to think so.   

“Sherlock…”

“Yes?”

“What do you want?”

The question is a bucket of very cold water raining down on him and he flinches. Moriarty withdraws his hand and promptly stuffs it into his pocket again. He forces the tension out of his body, but it takes so much effort it makes him seem tense anyway. His eyes are wide in alarm, Sherlock notes before he looks down again, _can’t manipulate the dark of your eyes Jim_

“Sorry”, Moriarty mumbles. “That was unfair…”

Sherlock’s entire being is screaming at him to _get out of here_ , but he stays, or stalls really, _just a little bit longer, just_

“Shall I tell you what I think you want, and then you can correct me if I’m wrong?” Moriarty offers.

“No”, Sherlock says.

“Then how about we play twenty questions—?“

A smile is about to erupt on his face, Sherlock can spot it now that he’s identified it and knows what to look for, but he extinguishes it before it has a chance to fully form, saying “No” again, then “No more games, we agreed.”

Moriarty swallows, nods. _He seems paler than before. Could be the light_. Sherlock takes a step closer to him, _when did we drift apart again?_ And he can tell the other man is tensing up, getting ready to _what? run, punch, push, pull?_

“How about… _you_ tell _me_ what _you_ want?” Sherlock says.

“Sorry, dear”, Moriarty croaks, voice doing all sorts of twists in those three little syllables alone. “I can’t do that.”

“Why?” Sherlock demands.

Moriarty just shakes his head, and he actually looks sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a oneshot so far. I don't know exactly where it'll land. But there will be brooding, emotional hurt/comfort and I don't think it will be very dark... 
> 
> I know Moriarty seems very OOC right now, and I might make a thing of that or he might be more changeable in future chapters, we'll see.


End file.
